Read Online The Lemon Table by Julian Barnes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julian Barnes
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wedding anniversary. Not once in thirty years.”
“Tom used to do this wonderfully romantic thing. We’d go away for the weekend, up into the mountains, and he’d book us into the lodge under a false name. We’d be Tom and Merrill Humphreys, or Tom and Merrill Carpenter, or Tom and Merrill Delivio, and we’d keep it up all weekend, and he’d pay in cash when we left. It made it … exciting.”
“Bill pretended to forget one year. No flowers in the morning, and he told me he’d be working late so he’d grab a bite at his desk. I tried not to think about it, but it made me a bit down, and then in the middle of the afternoon I got a call from the car company to check they were to pick me up at seven thirty and take me to the French House. Can you imagine? He’d even thought it out so that they gave me a few hours’ warning. And he’d managed to smuggle his best suit into work without me noticing so that he could change into it. Such an evening. Ah.”
“I always made an effort before I went to the hospital. I said to myself, Merrill, no matter how darned sorry you feel for yourself, you make sure he sees you looking like something worth living for. I even bought new clothes. He’d say, ‘Honey, I haven’t seen that before, have I?’ and give me his smile.”
Janice nodded, imagining the scene differently: the campus groper, on his deathbed, seeing his wife spend money on new clothes to please some successor. As soon as the thought occurred, she felt ashamed of it, and hurried on. “Bill said that if there was a way to send me a message—afterwards—then he’d find one. He’d get through to me somehow.”
“The doctors told me they’d never seen anyone hang in there so long. They said, the courage of the man. I said, oak leaves and clusters.”
“But I guess even if he was trying to send me a message, I might not be able to recognize the form in which it came. I comfort myself with that. Though the thought of Bill trying to get through and seeing me not understand is unbearable.”
Next she’ll be into that reincarnation crap again, thought Merrill. How we all come back as squirrels. Listen, kid, your husband is not only dead, but when he was alive he walked with his hands out, know what I mean? No, she probably wouldn’t get it. Your husband was known on campus as that little limey fag in administration—that any clearer? He was a teabag, OK? Not that she would ever actually tell Janice. Far too delicate. She’d just crumble to bits.
It was odd. Knowing this gave Merrill a sense of superiority, but not of power. It made her think, someone’s got to look out for her now that little fag husband of hers is gone, and you seem to have volunteered for the job, Merrill. She may irritate the hell out of you from time to time, but Tom would have wanted you to see this one through.
“More coffee, ladies?”
“I’d like some fresh tea, please.”
Janice expected to be offered yet again the choice of English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe or Earl Grey. But the waiter merely took away the miniature, one-cup pot which Americans mysteriously judged sufficient for morning tea.
“How’s the hip?” Merrill asked.
“Oh, much easier now. I’m so glad I had it done.”
When the waiter returned, Janice looked at the pot and said sharply, “I wanted fresh.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said I wanted fresh. I didn’t just ask for more hot water.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This,” said Janice, reaching for the yellow label which dangled from the lid of the pot, “is the same old teabag .” She glared at the supercilious young man. She really was cross.
Afterwards, she wondered why he had got all huffy, and why Merrill had suddenly burst into manic laughter, raised her coffee mug, and said, “Here’s to you, my dear.”
Janice raised her own empty cup, and with a dull, unechoing chink, they toasted one another.
3
H e’s the man to go to for knees. She was driving again in two days.”
“That’s
“Tom used to do this wonderfully romantic thing. We’d go away for the weekend, up into the mountains, and he’d book us into the lodge under a false name. We’d be Tom and Merrill Humphreys, or Tom and Merrill Carpenter, or Tom and Merrill Delivio, and we’d keep it up all weekend, and he’d pay in cash when we left. It made it … exciting.”
“Bill pretended to forget one year. No flowers in the morning, and he told me he’d be working late so he’d grab a bite at his desk. I tried not to think about it, but it made me a bit down, and then in the middle of the afternoon I got a call from the car company to check they were to pick me up at seven thirty and take me to the French House. Can you imagine? He’d even thought it out so that they gave me a few hours’ warning. And he’d managed to smuggle his best suit into work without me noticing so that he could change into it. Such an evening. Ah.”
“I always made an effort before I went to the hospital. I said to myself, Merrill, no matter how darned sorry you feel for yourself, you make sure he sees you looking like something worth living for. I even bought new clothes. He’d say, ‘Honey, I haven’t seen that before, have I?’ and give me his smile.”
Janice nodded, imagining the scene differently: the campus groper, on his deathbed, seeing his wife spend money on new clothes to please some successor. As soon as the thought occurred, she felt ashamed of it, and hurried on. “Bill said that if there was a way to send me a message—afterwards—then he’d find one. He’d get through to me somehow.”
“The doctors told me they’d never seen anyone hang in there so long. They said, the courage of the man. I said, oak leaves and clusters.”
“But I guess even if he was trying to send me a message, I might not be able to recognize the form in which it came. I comfort myself with that. Though the thought of Bill trying to get through and seeing me not understand is unbearable.”
Next she’ll be into that reincarnation crap again, thought Merrill. How we all come back as squirrels. Listen, kid, your husband is not only dead, but when he was alive he walked with his hands out, know what I mean? No, she probably wouldn’t get it. Your husband was known on campus as that little limey fag in administration—that any clearer? He was a teabag, OK? Not that she would ever actually tell Janice. Far too delicate. She’d just crumble to bits.
It was odd. Knowing this gave Merrill a sense of superiority, but not of power. It made her think, someone’s got to look out for her now that little fag husband of hers is gone, and you seem to have volunteered for the job, Merrill. She may irritate the hell out of you from time to time, but Tom would have wanted you to see this one through.
“More coffee, ladies?”
“I’d like some fresh tea, please.”
Janice expected to be offered yet again the choice of English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe or Earl Grey. But the waiter merely took away the miniature, one-cup pot which Americans mysteriously judged sufficient for morning tea.
“How’s the hip?” Merrill asked.
“Oh, much easier now. I’m so glad I had it done.”
When the waiter returned, Janice looked at the pot and said sharply, “I wanted fresh.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said I wanted fresh. I didn’t just ask for more hot water.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This,” said Janice, reaching for the yellow label which dangled from the lid of the pot, “is the same old teabag .” She glared at the supercilious young man. She really was cross.
Afterwards, she wondered why he had got all huffy, and why Merrill had suddenly burst into manic laughter, raised her coffee mug, and said, “Here’s to you, my dear.”
Janice raised her own empty cup, and with a dull, unechoing chink, they toasted one another.
3
H e’s the man to go to for knees. She was driving again in two days.”
“That’s
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